Another face in the opaque crowd searching for some translucence to diffuse and project his myriad thoughts through this utterly abhorrent state of lame rigidity.

Thursday, September 27, 2012


A sequel to Voices.

A temple stood on bamboo feet in the middle of an abysmally and particularly Sicilian-mafia-fashion brutally murdered place – a place devoid of death and full of life

‘Ah Life’, snorted the yak in disgust.
‘Aren’t you alive’, asked the woman.
‘I am a statue, can’t you see’, the yak replied.
‘With piercings on your knees’, the woman added.
‘I am punk, you idiot’, shouted the yak.
‘Oh, I see’, wondered the woman.

The variegated stained glasses ornamenting the window-ey eyes of the mud-clad temple with bamboo stilettos provided the woman with invigorating images of the world that lay rotting outside. The woman and the yak stood face to face in a metaphysical encounter.

‘Souls are real’, asserted the woman.
‘Commercial yak-shit’, laughed the yak.

Yes, they worshipped the yak in that devil-forsaken place. The zombies had a perfectly lit world with a 7 inch long Bunsen burner. Their ideas were cradled over the blue flame of flowery filth and littered hopes for the deceased. They called their world Earth and portrayed it as a utopian condolence for screwing up big time. And yes, they worshipped the yak.

‘Then, why do people come to you’, the woman thought to herself.
‘Because they are irreparable fools’, whispered the yak to her.
‘You can read minds’, exclaimed the woman.

Don’t you know Bunsen burners do not emanate a lot of light, do you? They are non-luminous blue flames. Blue films and laboratories are lit with such flames. Then how could it qualify as the sun of the world the zombies lived in? The coloured glasses had a certain mystical quality to them; they showed exactly what the person in conversation with the yak wanted to see.

‘They say, you are pimp’, blurted out the woman.
‘Yes, I am into souls...’, hurried the yak.
‘You hypocritical piece of excrement’, intercepted the woman.
‘...the business of bodies hit a rock-bottom a million years ago’, continued the yak.

The blue-ey, gooey mess the zombies lived in was swept aside with an acidic broom of tantrum thrown sky high by the yak. The yak swore by his foibles and abhorred vicissitudes although his decision making abilities rested solely on the visceral(stooping over the bent down carnal) traits of audio-visual juxtapositions, in a flickering no light effect strewn once in a while with a hard mix of psychedelic lights upon haystacks that carried the stench of cattle saliva. The yak was the root of this world. He had sustained the world with his sheer magic, his wand being the Bunsen burner. The zombies worshipped the yak.

‘So, what brings you here’, the yak inquired.
‘I came here because...’, the woman stopped.
‘Do you see what I see’, the woman resumed.
‘No, it’s only meant for you’, the yak added quickly.
‘But, I want you to see...’, the woman gasped frantically.
‘...what I see. I want to share them with you’, the woman murmured slowly.
‘Okay! I will have your soul’, the yak declared.
‘You are free now’, the voice of the yak echoed through and beyond the mud walls.

The glasses were funny, you see – they showed visibly transmogrified dark skins into fair ones and expensive lenses that entitle you to call yourself richly gifted with convoluted perceptions of a swamp, over which moths hovered and the zombies called those harmless creatures butterflies. As the caterpillars grew old, they invited the humans to wake up from their deaths and live, to become zombies. Then the caterpillars deluded the humans and fancy-dressed into butterflies. The zombies had a floating joke about the humans – they named their moths butterflies.

‘The temples are beautiful’, the woman said, looking through the stained glasses.
‘They are all fakes’, the yak quipped.
‘What do you mean’, the woman asked in disbelief.
‘Don’t worry, you would forget that they are fakes when you walk out of that door’, the yak sympathised.

You can only reach the temple of the yak by an invitation.

The woman christened zombie walked in distorted strides out of the temple and as she did her tinkling anklets rusted and wrapped around her feet like hand painted tribal tattoos.

The bamboo shoots twinkled with the blue light. The glasses had turned gray. The bowl of Earth had been heated enough for the day. The mud walls became soft and clayey. It was time for the yak to rest. Yes, they worshipped the yak.

Sean removed his shoes, then his socks. He put on his shoes again sans the socks and wore the socks on his hands like gloves. He stepped into the temple of the yak.

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